


Expectations

by DixieDale



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:31:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25360168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Hogan and the team were expecting a typical day, usual prison camp routine mixed with some skullduggery on their part.  Klink and Hilda had their own expections, if perhaps more focused on the personal.  It would have almost been funny, how fast those expections went straight to hell in a handbasket.  Until all of a sudden it wasn't funny at all.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> To Ginger 676 - this might not include ALL the points you were looking for, but it has enough I think you might enjoy.

It was a quiet morning. At his desk, Kommandant Klink was grinning, humming merrily to himself, treating himself to one of the tiny cheesecakes that new doctor had suggested to take away the bitter taste of the tonic he was supposed to take on a daily basis. Thoughtfully Klink ran his hand over his thinning hair. 

{"Two weeks, he said. I should start seeing some results in no more than two weeks."} and couldn't help wriggling in his chair in anticipation of once again having a thick full head of hair. Something he hadn't had since he was twenty-eight, if you wanted to be quite honest. Well, to be even more honest, it had never been THAT thick, THAT full, not the way he'd described it to the doctor. 

After all the searching for something to reverse the process that had started so long ago, whoever would have thought it would take only one tablespoon of dark liquid and one tiny cheesecake, taken daily over a course of such a short period of time! This was proof that miracles truly did happen!

"One tablespoon full." (Shudder!) "Eechhht! That is nasty! But the cheesecake is quite nice!" he remarked to himself, licking his lips, both to clear them of the acrid remains of the tonic and to comfort himself with the sweet raspberry flavor of the creamy treat. 

Glancing over in the mirror, he hesitated, then nodded firmly. "Surely it can't hurt! He didn't say NOT to, after all. Well, yes, he did say one tablespoon each morning, then one cheesecake. But he didn't say NOT to take more. He probably thought I'd want to start slow, didn't realize how anxious I was to make progress. Surely if there was any problem, he would have said something."

Reaching for that dark bottle and the spoon once more, he swallowed a second dose, hurrying to snatch up another cheesecake to drown out the taste.

Of course, being anxious to see results, Klink had seen no harm in starting on this first day with TWO tablespoons of the tonic, followed by one, then, after the second dose, another of the miniature sweets. 

He was even wondering if THREE might not be a good idea, just to get him off to a rousing good start, when he reluctantly decided that might just be overdoing it. 

He ran his hand over his head one more time, and paused, his eyes opening wide as he thought he felt - well, SOMETHING. Perhaps not new hair, not this soon, but something different than before. A tingling in his scalp. Perhaps the PROMISE of new hair?

Fraulein Hilda had just arrived and was getting the weekly report forms out of the file to begin her day's work. She was eager to get the day done; she had been promised the next day off, and she had a full dozen things to accomplish before she joined her best friend Jackie for dinner! Then, tomorrow, a whole day together, just the two of them! 

Their time together was so limited anymore, unlike when they were younger and rarely apart for more than a day or two at a time; if it wasn't for the importance of the work she was doing (no, not the Form KJ-7's she was filling out, but the work of acting as supposedly-oblivious font of information and support for Colonel Hogan and his team) she would have suggested she and Jackie proceed with the plans they'd made so long ago. Plans for a life far away, plans for a life together. 

She sighed. {"Perhaps, someday, but for now, the KJ-7's, taking dictation and trying to turn whatever nonsense he gives me into something proper and presentable for mailing. Not to mention preparing the budget reports and trying to compensate for those little sums the Kommandant borrowed, and for the ones I borrowed to get Sergeant Wilson those medical supplies for the prisoners. Ah, Jackie, my love! Look at me!! I am no longer a secretary and an accountant and a file clerk - I am now a magician, conjuring miracles with smoke and mirrors!"}

Hogan glanced at his watch and straightened up from where he had been leaning over his desk, pointing out the weak spots in that facility they were to sabotage. Quickly rolling the map into a narrow cylinder, he slid it into the cleverly-disguised holding place Carter had built just for that purpose. 

One of Carter's more intriguing ideas, that was, and one they relied on a lot. It consisted of an open tube with a rolled lip set within another tube, the whole being disguised as a holder for miscellaneous items such as might be found in any officer's quarters. However, unlike many such containers, a fairly standard design, the inner section of this one contracted to allow the placement of a few sheets of paper around its outer edge; then at just a touch to the right point, it expanded rapidly to the point of making any such items invisible, imperceptable to the naked eye or even a curious knife-blade. With that rolled lip, the reality of it being TWO tubes, not one solid construction, was well hidden. Yes, on various occasions, searchers had rudely yanked out the comb, lighter, handkerchief, other items, glanced inside, but that it was obviously hiding nothing untoward, that was easily seen and the searchers had gone on to other, more promising areas.

Other than a tendency to bite at the fingers of anyone who didn't move said fingers quickly enough, it was admittedly brilliant. 

Of course, Newkirk had a few things to say that first time he'd had to bandage Kinch's fingers. "You and your fetish with things that bite! Bad enough with all the bloody beasts, Andrew! We've a mouse that don't 'esitate to take nip if you reach in your pockets w'ile 'e's sussing out a stray crumb, dealt with a badger that was likely to take an entire 'and off, and a w'ole list of other things. That don't satisfy you? You 'ave to go and BUILD something that bites?" Still, it was handy, and had kept them out of the soup on more than one occasion.

"Well, let's break it up, guys. Roll call in just a few minutes. We can finish this tonight; we've got plenty of time before we need to take it down. We want to be sure that new machinery is already in place when the building goes up; it would be a shame to have to do the job twice."

"What about that new mission London was hinting about?" Kinch asked. It wasn't all that uncommon for their missions to come hot and heavy, them being expected to deal with competing targets in the same fairly narrow span of time. London was ambitious, no doubt about it, and fairly so. There was a lot to get done in this winning of the war.

"Well, when they get off the stick and stop hinting and actually give me something solid, we'll see. Hopefully in the next transmission. Come on, guys, let's move it. You know how the Kommandant gets when we're late. Don't want to ruffle the Iron Eagle's feathers," getting a joined laugh from the team. After all, ruffling the Iron Eagle's feathers was one of their specialities, though Hogan was the one with the inside edge on soothing said feathers when necessary.

"Ah, come on, Colonel. Kinda gets the day off to a good start, seeing the ole Iron Eagle flapping 'is wings and sputtering, that little swagger stick tucked up under 'is arm, 'is mouth AND likely 'is arse all puckered up like a pissed off street pigeon," Newkirk protested with a grin. "At least, when it's not freezing and we don't 'ave snow up to our ankles. Let me be the one to get the count all bollixed up again, eh? 'Ave a lovely new angle on that, I do."

"Not today, Newkirk. Let's just play it straight this morning," Hogan ordered as he checked the mirror to get his cap tilted just right. "We want to get this over with, the sooner the better."

LeBeau sighed and shook his head reprovingly at the laughing Englishman.

"One of these days you will annoy someone one time too many, my friend. Besides, it is not Schultz or Langenscheidt who will be doing the roll call; they are both still on leave. That means you might not get someone so good-natured and indulgent as Langenscheidt, or, in Schultz' case, so easily confused."

"Yeah, Peter. One of these days, if you're not careful, you're gonna walk right into it!" Carter said, nodding firmly. Of course, as he'd said his piece right before HE walked into the closed barracks door, there was more laughter than any serious consideration of his words.

It all went to hell so fast! That was what each of them remembered afterwards, that there was so little warning!

One minute Klink was giving another of his bombastic speeches about the 'victories of the glorious Third Reich', 'the inevitable outcome of the war', 'you must resign yourself to the outcome', while the prisoners stood at morning roll call, not even trying to suppress their morning yawns. 

While most were just anxious to get the boring ordeal over with so they could start another difficult day and get THAT over with, those from Barracks 2 were impatient for him to be done so they could get on with the planning for that next mission from London. They'd all listened to that incoming transmission. "Something rather interesting, I believe you will find it, Papa Bear; we wouldn't like for you to become bored, after all," London had assured them. It was probably a good thing that 'London' didn't have a visual - that eyeroll from the entire team probably wouldn't have seemed overly professional. But really, at least while out there on the job, boredom wasn't a major issue with them. Something about the constant possibility of capture, torture, death - that just seemed to sweep boredom right out the window.

Hogan was surreptitiously glancing at his watch, though giving an occasional puzzled look at the Kommandant, faintly wondering at the increasingly vague, even rambling speech Klink was giving, the strangely euphoric look on the man's face, the film of sweat starting to glisten on Klink's forehead.

Well, the Kommandant was rarely the most organized and coherent of men, but this was really getting odd, the way he was looping around, apparently even getting the Eastern and Western Fronts confused in his monologue, making 'whoosh' noises and making little airplane motions with his hand when he talked about the air battles, and then, at the end, proudly and confidently assuring them of a "swift and sure defeat of the Fuhrer's army at the hands of the brave and glorious Allied Forces!" 

Jaws dropped with a thud, among the prisoners AND among the guards!

Then, with one last, slightly maniacal grin, that monocle popped out and dropped, shattering on the hard ground, those beady eyes rolled back in a face now stricken with a sweaty pallor, and the mighty Iron Eagle, the Kommandant of Stalag 13 dropped to the ground as well. He was out cold.

The ambulance came roaring in and hauled the unconscious and feverish Wilhelm Klink away to be safely ensconced in the local hospital while the doctors tried to figure out what was wrong with him. 

As the driver told Dieter Van while Klink was loaded into the back, "it was lucky we were so close, on what must have be a crank call, for us to be flagged down by your man and directed here; otherwise it might not have gone so well with him. Hopefully it's not too serious, whatever it is, but I must say he does not look so good."

It was Dieter Van who brought up the puzzle not long after the ambulance departed with Colonel Hogan - for, odd though it may seem, even after talking to everyone, he could find no one among those at Stalag 13 who had run out and alerted the passing ambulance crew. Or had even realized such a crew was in the area. Oh, Fraulein Hilda had hurried away to call for one, of course, but there would certainly not have been enough time for one to have reached them as quickly as they did, not in response to that call. 

And then, Hilda was no longer in camp to ask any further questions of.

No, as soon as the ambulance pulled away, Hilda had raced back to the phone to notify General Burkhalter that Stalag 13 was now minus one Kommandant, with the top non-com on leave, but she was unsuccessful. She was more than a little worried to hear that Burkhalter was headed to Berlin on some top-secret business and would be unavailable even for messages for some time. She hadn't explained what she was calling about, in the end, for the voice at the other end wasn't Burkhalter's trusted assistant either, but a smugly-gloating Gestapo Major Hochstetter, who assured her he was on top of the situation at the Stalag, and that a replacement for Klink was only moments away. 

{"I said nothing, only asked for the General. How does he know the Kommandant is ill? What does he know about our 'situation'. And - moments away? How can that be?? This all just happened!"}

Hilda set the phone gently back in its cradle, rather as if it had been a poisonous snake, and then ran to discuss that conversation with the people who really needed to know - Dieter Van, standing in for Karl Langenscheidt, and, of course, Colonel Hogan. 

She would have gone to Sergeant Schultz, as well, but since he was on leave, as was Langenscheidt, when she returned from her quick conversation with Hogan, she tried to reach the Schultz household by phone. The door opened before the connection was made, and she found the newly arrived Acting-Kommandant Doeller taking the phone out of her hand. 

"I think we need make no unnecessary calls, Fraulein." The smell of stale liquor on his breath and clothing was offensive, especially when combined with that assessing up-and-down leer. She moved away from him quickly, her distaste impossible to hide.

That was right before he sent her home, informing her that her presence, "while pleasant, of course," was also unnecessary, as he had his own assistant. 

"Unless you wish to stay in some other, more personal capacity?" and that leer got broader. "No? Then collect your things and be off with you. I am sure Kommandant Klink, it is Klink, is it not?" he turned to the smirking blond man who had accompanied him who nodded in response. "Yes, I am sure Kommandant Klink will send for you when he returns. Whenever that might be. In the meantime, Brenner will manage things quite well. He knows exactly how I like things to be handled."

Hilda found herself bundled back into her car, two soldiers she had never seen before making sure she didn't stop and talk to anyone in the process. She drove out the wide gate, casting a worried look back in the rearview mirror. 

Resolutely she set her jaw. Perhaps she might not be able to call from the camp, but there was nothing to prevent her from making that call from her own phone, now was there? That call, and at least one other, to someone who might be able to reach General Burkhalter more easily than SHE could. AND she had to check with the hospital about the Kommandant. Not all of that was possible, much to her dismay, not once she noted that slightly-tinny sound echoing from her phone, possibly indicating a listener with headphones, but some of it? Yes, she could only hope some of what had happened would get to the right persons.

There was silence for a moment while Hogan and his men focused on that coffee pot, hoping to hear something, anything that might give them a better understanding of the situation they now faced.

Then there was a familiar squeak, and a huge sigh of relief as the new Acting-Kommandant settled into Klink's chair. From the depth of that metallic protest, the new man was quite a bit heavier than Klink.

"I thought for a moment she might insist on staying; I'm told she is the dedicated type," Doeller admitted. "She's a pretty thing, true. I wouldn't have minded, but she also looks like the type to nag and scold, and I get enough of that from my wife."

Brenner chuckled, "though it would perhaps not be so bad. Perhaps you could get something else from her, something you ALSO get from your wife."

Doeller snorted, "you mean YOU might! No, I am looking at this assignment as a total vacation, with NO responsibilities outside of filling this chair, not even the responsibility of satisfying some needy female, my wife included. You are quite capable of handling everything that needs doing, we both know that. And speaking of handling everything, did you . . ."

Another indulgent chuckle, one Hogan's men thought they could tire of quickly, and then the clink of bottles. "Of course, Kommandant Doeller. Three bottles in my briefcase, more in the car. I will set these on top of the cabinet for your convenience. And yes, of course, I will handle everything else. Major Hochstetter explained my duties quite thoroughly, including making sure you are not unduly disturbed while you are taking your 'vacation'. The radio transmission truck should be arriving any moment; it will not enter the camp, but will remain outside, well out of sight but also well within range to detect anything untoward going on in here."

"And all else is in place?" Doeller asked, relaxing back enough to make that chair set up its squeaking once more.

"Everything, Kommandant. Fischer and Becker will be on the lookout for anything suspicious, and will be quick to respond. Whether Major Hochstetter is right about this Colonel Hogan or not, I do not know. But we have our orders, and will, of course, obey. It is only our duty to the Reich, after all," Brenner assured Doeller in a particularly smarmy voice.

An appreciative chuckle was his response, along with a satisfied "ahhh!" as Doeller took what was obviously not his first drink of the day. "And you will enjoy every minute of that 'obeying', if I know you three. Yes, have your fun. You have the names and descriptions of the men the major considers the primary 'players'. They like to play games so much, perhaps you can introduce them to a few more, yes?"

"It will be our pleasure, Herr Kommandant," accompanied by that chuckle again, and the clink of glasses showed Brenner was joining his superior officer in a congratulatory drink.

Hogan sent a grim look at the others of his team, "well, this complicates things! Kinch, when are we expecting that information from London?"

"Any time now. But if we leave our side open to receive and that truck picks it up . . ." Kinch said, shaking his head.

"We can't risk it. Shut it down, tight, until I give the order otherwise. Give the one-stroke 'desist', then close it down. Maybe we can get word to Rene somehow, get him to pass the word along that we are out of commission for awhile. In the meantime, we're on Red Alert, full blast. All operations are at a halt. From now on, we are regular prisoners of war, well-behaving, obedient, no-monkey-business, totally cowed prisoners of war!"

It was a solid plan, an excellent plan. A plan that worked very well - - - til the two new guards decided Newkirk and Carter, on yard clean-up duty, had no business being near the water tower and dragged them off to the Kommandant's office.

Hogan heard about it from a panting LeBeau who had just missed being snagged as well. 

Coffee pot went on, just enough to get the gist, and while Hogan rushed to the Kommandant's office to intercede on behalf of his men, the Acting-Kommandant refused to see him, ordered him back to the barracks. It was with a feeling of deep frustration and worry that Hogan watched his two men being marched to the Cooler. Newkirk was dribbling blood from a split lip, and Carter was moving a little slower than usual; obviously it hadn't gone well.

Back inside, Kinch gave him the grim news. 

"Thirty days, Colonel, that's the sentence for 'loitering in a prohibited area'. Newkirk got slapped around some when he popped off about if they didn't want the place cleaned up, they could have just said something, and about not having heard that spot WAS prohibited. 

"According to this Brenner, the one who seems to be more in charge than Doeller, ANY area they don't like the prisoners being in or around is 'prohibited', and that eventually we'd figure it all out. WITHOUT the need for them to lay it all out nice and easy. Carter tried a little rambling goof act, and he got smacked too. Newkirk tried to get in between, and yeah, you guessed it. I think they both are gonna have some bruises."

"Can we check on them later, mon Colonel?" LeBeau asked. It depended on which cell the men were put in, of course, not all were easily accessible, but the odds were in their favor. All but one of the cells had a tunnel entrance.

"I don't know, LeBeau. It depends on how they're placing the guards. We stick our heads out at the wrong moment, we're ALL asking for a firing squad. We can't jeopardize the whole operation. I'll see how it looks later."

How did it look? Well, from the perspective of Peter Newkirk and Andrew Carter, not all that cheery. In fact, if the two were in the habit of keeping a diary, the entries that first night would have been telling.

**'Dear Diary' (Andrew Carter)  
So, me and Peter, we really stepped in it this time! Yeah, we were following the Colonel's orders, just keeping an eye on things, not really DOING anything, just policing the area like usual, but it all got crazy and we got caught and dragged to the Kommandant's office by the scruff of our necks. That's what my mom always called it anyway, though she was a lot gentler with grabbing the barn kittens than those soldiers were grabbing us, I can tell you that! 

Thirty days in the Cooler, that was the sentence, though I'm still kinda vague about what the charges were. Maybe I was too shook to hear them, or maybe there really weren't any. Maybe this new guy figures there doesn't HAVE to be any. Just like he doesn't figure we need a map or a list or anything to figure out which areas are prohibited. Heck, to hear him tell it, those could even change day by day!

I'm kinda scared, to tell you the truth. I've spent a day or two in here, now and again, even a whole week once, but nothing like thirty whole days at one time! Peter, now, he's an expert at it, but somehow that makes it even worse. I mean, that he's gotta go through it all over again! No matter how I really knew it wasn't gonna happen, us getting through without him getting stuck in here again - I mean, like he keeps saying, it's kinda his home-away-from home, I REALLY didn't want him to go through all that again. Yeah, I know - wishful thinking, right?

Well, at least it's only me and Peter - the Krauts didn't catch LeBeau, so he's not stuck in here with us. That's one of those good thing/bad thing kind of a situation, cause while neither of us want him to be facing whatever is ahead for the two of us, still, he helps steady Peter a whole lot. Well, maybe he does that for me too. Louie's just that kind of a guy, ya know? For a little guy, he's amazingly 'big' somehow, has what my mom always called 'a solid presence'.

They put us in different cells, which I don't like, but we're right next door, and there's that little grill in between that they didn't close and lock the cover on, so we can at least talk. At least we can once I stop shaking and pull myself together, which just might take awhile. Right now? I just want to throw up, but am really fighting that, since there's no water and this place already smells bad enough. I figure with that bucket in the corner I'm supposed to use as a latrine, it's gonna get a whole lot worse.

Oh, yeah, about not talking yet. No, I'm not, yet, but I guess that's okay, though, cause I don't think Peter's in the mood to listen either, not yet.

Not that Peter's doing much talking, either, unless you count a steady stream of what I'm pretty sure is cussing, though it's all in that 'East End' stuff so I'm only going by the tone of his voice since I sometimes don't understand the words, even when I DO. 

Yeah, I know that doesn't make a lot of sense, but you see, some of that 'East End' stuff, what the words ARE isn't what they mean really. Yeah, I know, I get confused too. I mean, if they don't want the English words to mean what they're supposed to, don't you think they'd just say what they really want to say? Or maybe even use another language, like French or Spanish or something? Don't mention to Peter that I said that; last time I told HIM that, he hit me on top of my head and called me a 'flippin' idiot'! Huh! Why he can say THAT plain as day, but not a bunch of other stuff, I'll never know!

***'Dear Flippin' Diary!' (Peter Newkirk)  
'Ome again, 'ome again. Well, at least my 'ome-away-from-'ome. That's right - the Cooler. 'Ave to tell you, none of those improvements I'd so 'elpfully suggested - the window glass, the carpet, the decent bed and covers, the full bath - none of that got approved by whoever was in charge of redecorating. No, it's just the way it was the LAST time I stayed in this illustrious establishment, and w'ile it might rate 3 stars in 'Cockroach Weekly', no one else is likely to be so approving. 

So, yes, I'm back. Well, it was bound to 'appen, you know.

Except this time I've got company, which is good in some ways, bad in others. And me and Andrew, we're in different cells - that's another thing that is good in some ways, bad in others. Good, in that I 'ave privacy to show just 'ow angry I really am, even 'ow scared I am, without 'im knowing and worrying about me. 

No, don't go repeating that, at least that last part. Can't afford to look like I'm scared, and it's not so much (least not all) for me, mostly it's for Andrew. Ain't 'ad near the experience I 'ave with dealing with the rough side of someone's fist or more, our Andrew. Wish 'e'd been farther away, right along with LeBeau; then I'd only 'ave my own sorry self to worry over. Way over in that next cell, anyone tries anything on, w'at the bloody 'ell am I gonna be able to do to protect 'im, just tell me that??!

Of course, LeBeau would have had an entry as well.

***'Cher Journal'  
I failed them, Pierre, Andre, my brothers, although I know that is not how they will look at it. I was unobserved, and because of that, I remain free, or relatively speaking, since I am, of course, still in a prisoner of war camp, coming back into the barracks through the tunnel from the kennels. THEY are in the cooler, and will be for the next thirty days unless Colonel Hogan can convince the Kommandant to release them early. 

If it were Klink, perhaps they could be back in the barracks by tomorrow, but it is NOT Klink. Klink is in hospital, and we still do not know when he is returning. IF he is returning. 

And as if that is not a frightening thought all by itself, General Burkhalter wasn't the one assigning this Doeller to handle Klink's job while he is away, it was that filthy boche, Hochstetter. General Burkhalter was in Berlin, and although Hilda will surely try to make him aware of the circumstances, we do not know if she has been successful. For she has not been allowed to return to the camp, not once Doeller showed up and sent her away. That drunkard has his own assistant, along with the two soldiers he brought with him. And those two soldiers are the ones assigned to the Cooler, all of the regulars being ordered to stay away. That cannot be good, non.

Colonel Hogan decided we could enter the tunnel leading to the cells, and crack the entrance only a hair, just to listen. We could not do more, for the guards, both Doeller's men, were far too close. We could not even dare whisper an encouragement, and had to hope only that Pierre and Andrew knew we were thinking of them, praying for them throughout the long night.

Hopefully, surely le Colonel will come up with a plan; he is quite good at that, of course, but this time? Only time will tell.

Day Two in the Cooler was no more fun than the first, perhaps even less. The unemptied latrine buckets added to the bleak atmosphere, and their aimless conversation to pass the time was interrupted frequently by visits from Fischer and Becker, and even once by Brenner. The visitors asked questions, and when they didn't like the answers, they offered a 'gentle hand of encouragement'. That's what Brenner called it, though Peter knew it better as something else, a 'helpful tap'.

After one such visit, he wearily explained to Andrew that "a friend of mine, back from the streets, 'e 'ad a right bastard of a father, pretty much like mine was, w'at liked to give out something similar, only 'E called it "a little tap to improve yer understanding". Even got 'imself the nickname of 'Taps' for 'ow often 'e delivered just that thing, to my friend and many an other. Think Brenner might even 'ave ole Taps Grainger beat, though," Peter acknowledged, rubbing his jaw that Brenner had been demonstrating on.

The day also passed with no food being offered, and only a metal cup of water being shoved inside each cell.

Day Three at least brought a stale roll and a mug of watery liquid that might have been intended for potato soup. Well, that was what was delivered to Andrew; Peter waited in vain, then shrugged in resignation. Andrew was part way through his meager breakfast when he realized he was the only one who had any.

"Here, Peter, we'll share," he insisted. It took some arguing and some careful tearing, but finally Newkirk reluctantly accepted those long narrow strips of bread being eased through the only spot in the grill large enough to make it possible. 

"See, just like a momma bird feeds her chicks," Andrew had said with glee. Newkirk chuckled as he ate, realizing Andrew had even slightly dampened each in the soup. Well, he couldn't have done more than that or the bread wouldn't have made it through the grill. 

It wasn't much in the way of sustenance, but he had to admit the long, rambling, drawn-out story Andrew told him distracted him from that, all about that season when he'd been a boy spending time with his grandfather - of watching an eagles' nest, first the building, then the eggs, and eventually the hatching. "And the momma and poppa eagle, they'd bring food to the eaglets and feed them, just like I'm feeding you! The -" and a few syllables in Lakota Sioux tumbled easily from Carter's mouth, "that's what my grandfather called them, those fuzzy little eagle babies. The eaglets even made that little nodding motion, just like you're doing! You need to work on that chirripy sound they make though, you're not getting it nearly high-pitched enough. Maybe I'll start calling you that, I mean, just between us. Yeah, I'm gonna do that!"

Newkirk grinned to himself, though shaking his head at what the others in the crew would think about THAT nickname. {"A newly-'atched baby eagle, still covered in fuzz??! Bloody 'ell! THAT'S 'ow 'e's seeing me??? And 'ere I am, picturing myself as something sly and 'ard, dangerous and shifty, and a lot more! Bloody 'ELL, that's what I AM!!! Just ask ANYONE! Andrew, sometimes I just gotta wonder 'ow your mind works!!"}. 

And although the whole notion gave him sort of a warm glow somehow, though he knew that was as crazy as obviously Andrew was, he knew his dignity just wouldn't abide a nickname like that, not here, not now, not for the foreseeable future. {"In fact, NEVER, unless we were in the middle of nowhere, with not much of anyone else around!"} he snorted in amusement. {"Blimey, wish I could tell Caeide about that; she'd never STOP laughing!"}

And so he took considerable pains to make Carter clearly understand that he was NOT in favor of being addressed in any such fashion, nor was he interested in learning to make high-pitched chirripy sounds with his dinner! That low chortling laugh from Carter gave him the uneasy feeling that this wasn't the LAST time he'd be hearing himself addressed like that, though.

At least the visits from the two new guards were kept to a minimum for awhile, Fischer and Becker being too busy nosing around camp, trying to catch someone else to harass. That they had struck out, Hogan having ordered everyone to pretty much keep to the barracks, didn't improve their disposition, but Brenner had called them in for a consultation so that took up most of their evening hours.

The lookout saw the two guards headed for the Kommandant's office, and Hogan immediately had the coffee pot in position.

"They are not eager to cooperate. We shall have to increase the pressure, perhaps turn them against each other. Remember how we worked it with those two in Paris? We had them at each other's throats within only a day or two, each vying with the other as to who would tell us what we wanted to know first to avoid the worst of the punishment. Perhaps we try that," Becker offered.

A hoarse snore came from the background, and Fischer made a sound of disgust. "Does he HAVE to sleep off his drunk in here? There is a perfectly good bed next door, isn't there??!"

"Why leave?" Brenner said sardonically. "The bottle is here, he has no intention of making use of the shower, and why dirty another uniform when obviously he cannot smell himself? If he could, he would have shot himself in disgust long ago."

"How does a sot like that keep his uniform, that is what I would like to know?" Becker commented.

"Easily, my dear Becker. He is willing to go anywhere he is told, do anything he is told to do, and willing to take us with him and give us free rein. He is quite useful, to Hochstetter and others like him. I find him quite useful too, and my father allows me the indulgence," Brenner laughed.

Fischer grumbled in a mocking tone, "yes, having a Field Marshall as your father can be quite convenient, I'm sure."

"Having a father who is a Field Marshall, AND a man with a great many secrets he would prefer I not share with others, is even MORE convenient. That it results in my being given a free rein is, of course, due to my ever-so-wise mother. She knows even MORE of his secrets, and would betray him in an instant if he tried to arrange a little 'accident' for me. He tried it on her, once, thinking to silence her; he was unable to leave his bed for months, and became amazingly cooperative after that. 

"My mother gave me some excellent advice when I was quite young. She said "follow my example, my son. Seek out men with weaknesses and learn their secrets; then find ways to use their secrets to gain control over them. That way lies true power, being the power BEHIND the throne, not sitting upon it where the arrows of your enemies might seek you out more clearly," and I must say I have found that to be quite true."

"So, do you seek to control Major Hochstetter?" Becker asked carefully. It was obvious by the tone of his voice that he didn't think that was such a good idea. Not much made him uneasy, nor many people, but the Gestapo major was a different story.

"No, no, I think not. Yes, he has secrets, nightmarish secrets, in fact; yes, he has weaknesses. But he is one of the exceptions Mother also mentioned. She warned me never to try such things with a man who is of one certain type. And Major Hochstetter, unfortunately, IS a man of that type."

"And what type would that be?" Fischer asked, the clink of a bottle showing they were making inroads into Doeller's liquor supply.

"The verrückt type, my friend, the insane type. They are too unpredictable. Luckily, that is not the case with our two birds in the cage. They are of a far more common type, and I think we can manage them quite well. Indeed, we must, for the good Major will be most displeased if we make NO progress. That fool of a Kommandant will surely be released from the hospital soon; the one dose of that tonic and that sweet treat should wear off shortly."

"We are no closer to proving this Colonel Hogan is Papa Bear than when we arrived," Fischer pointed out.

"True, true. But Hochstetter DID say that if we were unable to do THAT, if we could permanently deprive Hogan of the services and skills of one or two of his chosen followers, that would suffice. I will think on that tonight, take another look at each of their files, and tomorrow we will put a plan into motion for our two captive birds. Perhaps we might even find a way to remove more of his pets, or at least, make them less, shall we say, valuable to him."

In Barracks 2, the mood was grim. Finally Hogan shoved his hands against the table and stood up. 

"Alright, we can't wait any longer. Kinch, get into the tunnel; wait for the first opportunity to tell the guys to be on their guard, the Krauts are up to something to make trouble between them, maybe more; it could get nasty. I'm going to see if I can't get word to Langenscheidt; he wasn't going very far on leave, probably easier to get to him than Schultz."

"He might be easier to get to, Colonel, but he's only a Corporal. Hell, you think even Schultz could stand against that lot?" Kinch offered worriedly.

"I don't know, Kinch, but they both know me. They aren't stupid enough to meet me in 'German Officer' mode OR civilian dress and not recognize me; would know I wouldn't take that risk if it weren't a matter of some urgency. Burkhalter is in Berlin, Klink is in the hospital. We don't have a hell of a lot of choices here," Hogan admitted with a worried frown. From the sound of it, he was on the verge of losing two valuable men, maybe more, to the unwanted visitors. Either that, or maybe have the whole operation go down, and that just wasn't an option.

"Maybe a phone call from 'General Kinchmeyer'? It's worked in some really weird situations," Kinch offered, and Hogan thought for a moment, then nodded. 

"Yeah, we'll give that a try, too, at least if I can't get hold of Langenscheidt. Right now, we can't depend on any one plan; we're going to have to be flexible, use anything and everything we can come up with. We have too much riding on this. This could take down the entire operation. We can't take that chance."

The other men in the room, Kinch, LeBeau, Olsen, exchanged a glance. Yeah, this could take down the operation, and two good friends.

Klink had been waiting for someone to come fetch him; after all, the doctors had said he was free to leave, that odd but non-dangerous and delirium and fever now totally routed after three days flat on his back. But his calls to the camp were being disconnected, or he was put off with a brusque, "the Acting Kommandant is sleeping/away/busy. We have received no orders relieving him of his command and putting you back in charge. No offense, of course, Colonel Klink." 

He almost fretted himself back into a fever with a combination of frustration and worry. 

Finally a call to Hilda got some results, with her promising to come get him as soon as she could. She couldn't come just then, though, because General Burkhalter was supposed to return her call within the hour. Yes, it had taken her all that time to reach the General, who was secreted on some business she was not privileged to know. Well, it wasn't HER who had reached him, but a good friend, someone who was able to finally bully her way through the ring of protection, or maybe obstruction, placed around the General. Very few had the willpower to stand against Gertrude Linkmeyer, sister to General Burkhalter, after all.

Burkhalter fumed and fussed and bellowed, and when he'd worn himself out, told Hilda that he would immediately make the call to put Klink back in charge; that she was to pick the man up from the hospital and immediately return him to his office. There was something in his tone that gave her the idea that Hochstetter was going to hear about this but good, messing in Burkhalter's business once again without even a by-your-leave.

Klink didn't make a fuss as Hilda relayed all of that to him while helping him into his jacket; he was still tired from his ordeal, and wanted nothing but his own chair, his own office, and a good stiff drink. AND to pour that 'tonic' down the sink and toss the rest of those cheesecakes in the trash. 

The doctors had been quite clear that he had been poisoned, had questioned his recent habits. When he'd sheepishly mentioned the new hair-growing regimen, they had been astounded at his naivete, and scolded him fiercely. He wasn't sure what was more lowering, the poisoning for some unknown purpose, the uncertainty of the source, the humiliating scolding from the doctors or the knowledge that the return of his thick head of hair was only a mirage, never to be obtained. Yes, he really wanted a good rest and a good stiff drink.

That wasn't going to occur quite as quickly as he had hoped, not with the chaotic scene in the compound as they drove through the gates.

Sergeant Schultz had arrived not twenty minutes earlier, alerted by a frantic Karl Langenscheidt, who, in turn, had received a cryptic message delivered by a neighborhood urchin, supposedly from a dark-haired man in a trench coat. He would have returned sooner, but he had taken his wife and the younger children on a trip to see his wife's sister, and returned to receive none of the calls Hilda had attempted, only the one from Langenscheidt and that on its tenth ring. A fast kiss to his wife and children, and he pulled himself back into the car and sped away. His 'boys' were in trouble, big trouble, and he was much too far away! Picking up Karl Langenscheidt on the way, they raced toward Stalag 13 at a speed that old car had never before attempted.

And in the Cooler, that grill was their lifeline, the means by which words, and scraps of food, and even water were passed, the latter a rather messy affair since the cup was useless and they eventually had to resort to passing the vital liquid from mouth to waiting lips. Each visit brought more prodding, more humiliation as the sadistic guards try to pit one man against the other.

Finally, when the guards seemed to catch on to the conduit that grill presented, they slam the cover on the grill, blocking contact. That the lock was left not quite caught into place, at first Andrew and Peter thought was a coincidence, a piece of luck, and while they didn't dare open it fully now, at least kept it slightly ajar so they could talk.

But no, that had obviously been no coincidence, since Newkirk awoke from a dreary dozing to the sounds of Andrew being beaten to confess that he'd somehow jimmied the latch. He started yelling, banging on the grill to draw their attention, intending to confess, thinking to prevent Andrew from being beaten to death, but Andrew, hearing his voice, screamed in apparent fury, "yeah, Newkirk! That's right! Snitch on me! Just to save your own miserable skin! Some friend YOU are!" 

Peter was shocked at the accusation, then realized Andrew was trying to SAVE him! The Englishman was scared and furious - after all, that was HIS job, being the sacrifical goat, not Andrew's. No sense them BOTH ending up in the rough! And surely he had more experience, was more familiar with that territory than Andrew!

His yelling had one effect, anyway. The guards left Andrew's cell and entered his. Now they switched their story, telling him they didn't believe Andrew did it after all; that the record showed Newkirk was well known as a thief, and such a deed would be more likely one Newkirk would try. A few hard blows from Becker's fist, Newkirk having his arms secured behind his back by the pleasantly smiling Fischer, gave him a grim idea of where this was going. 

Then Becker laughed, told him he had a cure for such a man with such tendencies, and left, with Fischer staying behind to keep a close watch and deliver a couple of hard kicks just to pass the time. 

Peter was sweating about what they might have in mind, but more concerned about Andrew and how badly he might be hurt. He'd heard only faint moans before he'd been distracted by the beating he was being given. He found himself wishing LeBeau or Kinch would come up through the tunnel, spirit Andrew magically away, but knew that was impossible, would lead to the discovery and destruction of the whole operation, probably every man in camp. He gritted his teeth, determed to bear up under whatever was to come, and just hope for the best as far as Andrew was concerned. {"Maybe w'atever they 'ave in mind for me will be enough to satisfy them. Maybe by then the colonel will come up with something to get Andrew out from under,"} he thought frantically.

'Whatever' arrived, in the form of a butcher knife in the hands of a maliciously-smiling Becker. Newkirk felt the sweat pour from him, knowing 'bearing up' was no longer an option. Hell, survival was probably not an option either! He wished to bloody hell Andrew was anywhere far away from here. Even if these two didn't start on him next, Andrew didn't need to hear, see what was going to happen!

Carter was at the grill, looking on in horror, screaming at the top of his lungs for help, from Hogan, from someone, from ANY one.

It was only Schultz and Langenscheidt, just in through the camp gates, and being informed of the sad state of affairs by the uneasy young man standing guard outside the Kommandant's Quarters, who prevented tragedy from striking.

Schultz, backed up by Langenscheidt and a couple of trusted others summoned by a hoarse shout from the Sergeant entered the Cooler at a rush, to shouts and the sound of blows landing on an unwilling, fiercely struggling body. 

The Sergeant of the Guard stopped, momentarily stunned at the sight. A butcher knife hovering teasingly above Newkirk's extended hands. A hard boot stood on each wrist, cruel laughter accompanied their actions, while Andrew yelled himself hoarse to no avail for someone to come help. 

Well, the men from Barracks 2 couldn't, not without using the tunnels, since Becker had taken the precaution of blocking the doors and windows to the barracks on his way to collect that knife. 

Hogan was, in his defense, as of yet unaware of the direness of the situation, just having climbed in through the tunnel entrance, and having ordered the others of his team to stay away from the tunnels to the Cooler, so that no sound might betray their existence. 

Now, hearing Carter's cries for help and finding the exits blocked, he and the others dreaded what might be happening in that cold building, but with the outside latch engaged, could do nothing without giving their entire operation away. They could do nothing, nothing but wait and hope like hell Schultz, the just arrived Sergeant Schultz, could save the day.

While Schultz' rank alone wasn't enough to stop whatever the two had planned, his rifle (for once actually containing bullets) and those of the other three guards he'd brought with him had a sobering, or at least a restraining effect. 

There were threats, of course, but no one stopped Langenscheidt and Dieter Van from pulling the stumbling and retching Newkirk out, collecting the furious and well-battered Carter at the same time, and hurrying them across the compound to their barracks. Brust ran to open the door, and Hogan and the others surged forward to collect the faltering duo. 

"Brust, get Sergeant Wilson, schnell!" Schultz ordered, and turned to find Fischer and Becker right behind him. He held firm, ordering them back to their quarters, and turned to close the door behind him, leaving them no access to the prisoners. 

Although he knew not to trust the men, still it was totally unexpected that they would attack him. He was entirely unprepared to have that same knife that was threatening Newkirk to be plunged into his back.

Standing there, stunned at the hard blow, wide-eyed, hand reaching back, coming away bloody, he sat down heavily on the wooden bench, and leaned back, eyes closed, mouth open in shock. The prisoners, alerted by LeBeau watching through the periscope, came streaming out, getting between, but Becker was shouting for the guards, claiming Newkirk stabbed the sergeant and was hiding inside, that he should be taken to the side wall and shot, immediately. 

Now the men were fighting off the two men, Becker and Fischer, who obviously intended to do just that that, now supported by Brenner who had come running at the commotion.

Wilson was coming across the compound at a run to help Newkirk and Carter, now groaned at the news of a stabbing, and of the Sergeant of the Guard, at that! 

That was the scene when Hilda and a weary but triumphant Klink pulled back in the gate. 

Klink's expression quickly changed from deep relief at the prospect of his own bed and a drink, to something that would have been comical if not for the situation he had interrupted. He stared at the scene of confusion, now with the swaying, obviously drunk Acting-Kommandant Doeller there, shouting, also ordering Newkirk to be shot immediately for attacking a German soldier.

In the meantime, Wilson was doing a rapid examination, and leaned back with a puzzled "what the hell??" Quickly stripping off the sergeant's uniform jacket, he gave a snort of shocked laughter. Somehow, the expected life-threatening wound was non-existent. Instead . . . 

It turned out the knife had hit the large, thick and meaty sausage Schultz had brought back from leave, tucked under the side of his jacket for safekeeping. It had skidded off the tough casing, and the knife had just cut a deep gash in his skin, from whence came the blood. "A hair closer, though . . ." Wilson said, shaking his head in relief.

Once he was slapped on the cheek a few times and reassured he wasn't dying, Schultz defended Newkirk, swearing the man was inside the barracks, the door already shut when the attack had come. It didn't take long for the whole story to come out, and Kommandant Klink defended his territory with all the fierceness of a, well, perhaps not a raging lion, more like a bleating outraged goat, but he didn't do all that bad. It was enough to suffice, anyway.

Klink had Becker, Fischer and Brenner taken to the cooler under guard until he decided what to do with them, sternly dismissing the Acting Kommandant with a firm, "yes, but your services are no longer required. Corporal Langenscheidt will arrange for a driver to take you into town. This is my camp, per orders from General Burkhalter, and I am the only Kommandant it needs."

Of course, Doeller insisted on taking the three men with him, citing Major Hochstetter's name as leverage, and with some reluctance, Klink agreed. Soon the car sped out the entry gate, no camp driver needed since there were plenty of able-bodied men in the car to handle that task. Hopefully Burkhalter would be able to prevent any repercussions, but as annoyed as the General had been when Hilda had spoken with him, somehow no one was TOO worried about the Major reacting for the immediate future anyway. They knew that wouldn't last for long, but any break was a good thing.

*

Yes, it was a bit of a zoo, but things gradually settled down somewhat, especially when that radio transmission truck sheepishly pulled out from the trees and in behind the staff car and departed the area.

The others from Barracks 2 were milling around in Hogan's office, trying to decipher the message from London - something on the order of "enough tea time, fellows, don't you think? Let's get on with it, shall we?" - leaving Newkirk and Carter, two battered and shaken men, to the sole occupancy of the barracks proper. They hadn't said anything to each other, not really, not yet; they were still more in a state of shock than anything else, most likely. Then Carter broke the silence.

"I'm sorry - !" And there followed that odd, to Newkirk the almost unpronounceable term, the one that Andrew had told him meant 'eaglet', 'baby eagle'. 

"Really! I couldn't figure out how to make them stop, make them come back into my cell and leave you alone!" came in almost a sob of frustration and agonized relief that rescue had come in time.

Stunned, Peter Newkirk looked through the dim light at the huddled form at the table next to him. Unexpectedly he now knew, he needed to survive, get through this bloody war alive. No, didn't DECIDE to get through the war alive; he bloody well knew that wasn't within his control. But NEEDING to, WANTING to, even? That was blindingly obvious now, when he hadn't been totally sure before. Well, now he was.

And the reason? That ridiculous, bloody stupid reason? Andrew Carter and that bloody stupid nickname. For some ungodly, unknown reason, he had the almost unbearable yearning to be somewhere, someplace safe, where Andrew could call him by that ludicrous nickname and he would be free to hear it and enjoy it. Not that he would ever tell ANDREW (or anyone else, for that matter) that he enjoyed it, LIKED it even. Well, of course not, but still, he really WANTED that freedom.

{"Come to think on it, I wouldn't be surprised if there's not a nickname or two I might like trying on for Andrew, too, we ever get to that point. None as purely foolish as THAT one, acourse. Don't know as there COULD be one as foolish as that, for someone like me! In fact, that one would suit 'IM one bloody sight better than it does me! I expect I'll come up with something proper, in time."}

NO one - well, other than a few obviously deluded individuals - Maudie, Mavis, Marisol, Caeide, LeBeau, a few others - thought he was worth even giving the time of the day or a spare thought to, much less anything else. And not even any of them had ever given him such a totally ridiculous, outrageous, utterly inappropriate nickname! Why that made him feel so achingly odd inside, that teasing 'eaglet', he had no intention of thinking about, but hearing that anguished whispered outpouring from the young American, that had shocked him. Not that he didn't feel much the same, of course, but that was different! Wasn't it??! And he didn't know what the bloody hell to DO about it, except he knew he couldn't do ANYTHING about it if he, AND Andrew, didn't survive this bloody, damned war!!

He wasn't sure what he said in response to that outpouring, but it must have been enough, since Carter nodded and gulped and pulled himself together enough to pour each of them a half cup of whatever was in that coffee pot. Not tea, probably not even recognizable coffee, but it was wet and hot, and they shared it, and that was enough for now.

It was quiet in the barracks, well after lights-out. Newkirk was in Carter's bunk, the lower of the two, not willingly, but really not yet able to make that painful climb up to his own perch, and had given in to the insistence, knowing the climb down from there would be even more painful in the morning. Carter was above, though not sleeping, his nerves far too jangled to consider anything even approaching sleep.

"Hey, Peter. You awake?" he whispered softly, leaning over the edge.

"Bloody 'ell, acourse I'm awake! Keep counting my fingers to make sure they're all still there! Every time I start to doze off, seems like I'm missing one or three or maybe all!" Newkirk's voice was no louder than Carter's, that ragged edge even more pronounced. It was bad enough, the physical damage he'd taken, but the mental, emotional toll of what he'd come so close to experiencing, that was weighing even more heavily on his mind.

Somehow Carter didn't have to see Newkirk to know there was a film of sweat on his friend's face. Well, he could understand that; he felt more than a little green himself with all that had happened, all that COULD have happened. If it hadn't been for . . .

"It ever seem strange to you, Peter, how many times it's been Schultz, or Langenscheidt, or Dieter Van, even the old Iron Eagle or Burkhalter that's pulled us out of the fire? You and me in particular?"

"Strange ain't even the word, Andrew!" came as a heartfelt reply. Well, it was such a bloody confusing war sometimes! 

"I mean, you keep expecting it to be the Colonel, and sure, a lot of times it is. But he's got other things to think of, you know? I mean, that 'big picture', and London and their orders, and Tiger and the Underground and, well, whole bunches of stuff. So I guess we can't always be at the top of his list. I get that, really I do," almost as if he was trying to convince, not just Newkirk, but himself as well. He buried the thought of how impossible that would have been, seeing things from Hogan's point of view, if things had gone utterly wrong back in that cell. He just didn't think he had it in him to be that generous, not then, maybe not ever. Even knowing Hogan had gone outside the fence, tracked down Langenscheidt to come to the rescue, even then . . .

"It's just, well - you don't expect it to be Schultz or Langenscheidt or . . . " and his voice trailed off.

Another long pause, then a deep, very heavy sigh from the bunk below.

"No, Andrew. You don't expect that, do you? Can't say we should be depending on that overly much, but still, don't seem right to look a gift 'orse in the mouth, as the old saying goes. Speaking of which, gifts and all, maybe I'll see if Louie can throw together something nice as a little 'thank you'. I know 'e don't like doing for the Krauts, but maybe this time, if we ask . . . "

And in the silence came a low voice in a French accent, "you do not have to ask, mes amis. For what they have done today, the very best I can manage. Perhaps not for Burkhalter, I do not know how that can be managed discreetly. But for the others? Oui, that I will do, somehow. Even for Klink will I provide some small tidbit."

And finally quiet came to Barracks 2, and eventually sleep, at least to most of those occupying those bunks. 

Although even in his sleep Newkirk kept muttering under his breath, kept counting his fingers, until Carter crept over the railing and settled in beside him. Words breathed softly, "woablakela, ciye, colapi. Woablakela," followed by a word, no two words, whispered so softly that not even the slowly-rousing Newkirk could hear them clearly. 

Still he smiled, somehow knowing what that would have been, the Lakota Sioux term for 'eaglet', what it would have implied. Not a very impressive picture, that, a 'baby eagle', certainly not how he saw himself. And he certainly wasn't intending to learn how to make high-pitched chirripy noises just to be accommodating. 

But somehow? When Andrew called him that, it was - well, different, made him feel special, made him feel safe and warm, made him feel loved - all of that something quite rare in his experience. Well, how could he doubt, when there Andrew was, spooning him, arms reaching around him, hands grasping his own restless ones so firmly, so gently, intertwining, and at last stilling their endless movement. 

And finally, along with the quiet, came peace - at least as much as a narrow bunk in a cold barracks in the middle of a German prisoner of war camp could offer.


End file.
